


hope it isnt repetition

by Conifer



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Jack Struggles With Emotions, Jack is demi but that isnt really relevant in this it's just something i care about, M/M, Platonic Love, Romantic love, mentions of overdose, mentions of possible suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8043715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conifer/pseuds/Conifer
Summary: Objectively, Jack Zimmermann knows what love is. He’s done his research, read his dictionary. Love / noun / an intense feeling of deep affection. But somehow it's not that easy.





	hope it isnt repetition

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first thing ive written in a while and i hate/love this comic for making me have emotions about this man.  
> i project at least 98% of my problems onto jack zimmermann and i have no regret

             Objectively, Jack Zimmermann knows what love is. He’s done his research, read his dictionary. _Love / noun / an intense feeling of deep affection._ He’s grown up around movies romanticising romance, books telling him that the guy always ends up with the girl, television shows making it seem so easy when characters fall in love, fall in bed, after only a few episodes of half-awkward flirting. So he thinks he knows what this is all about. He thinks that he could probably feel something and know that, yes, this is love.  
He thinks.

             The actuality is that it’s not that easy. Not for him, at least. He tried, with Kent. It felt like maybe he had this right, with Kent. He thought that this was maybe love, the rush of adrenaline he got when they kissed for the first time, with a bottle of cheap vodka and a fistful of bad decisions between them. Maybe this was love, the need to impress him. The drive to earn the cocky praise, the place beside him. Maybe this was love, but Jack didn’t know. He was never really sure. Jack wondered if you were supposed to be able to tell, when you were in love with someone. If this was supposed to be easy. If he was supposed to understand. Jack really, really didn’t know. But he said it like he did, because Kent said it, one night, wrapped up in an impressive win, after whatever their relationship was had been going on for a while, and he needed to say _something_. So he echoed the words, voice catching a bit, and hoped that Kent didn’t notice.  
Kent didn’t notice a lot of things. Jack kind of wants to blame him for it. He does blame him, for a long, long time.

             If anything, Jack knows that he loves hockey. Loves the ice, loves the game, loves forgetting that the world outside of this rink matters. Doesn’t love the politics and the homophobia and the media attention, but loves the fact that most that doesn’t exist when you’ve scored a goal, and another, and as long as you keep quiet, as long as you speak when spoken to, people will respect you. It’s a heavy weight, but he’s managing it. He’s trying. He’s trying so hard. It’s understandable if he needs a little help.

             He started saying the words less and less to his parents the more and more pills he took. It started with the usual _I love you_ whenever the opportunity arose, and soon enough was the occasional _je t'aime aussi_ at the end of phone calls, until it stopped entirely, a month before pills took place of his words in his throat.  
             Jack had never really been a loud child, and while his parents didn’t realise entirely what was happening as it happened, they noticed that he was a bit quieter. They noticed the slight pause, then the complete silence of a call ended. It hurt worse than anything, until they heard the words _hospital, possible suicide attempt_. Then it was just a warning sign that they think they should have noticed.  
             When he said it, again, out of the blue, two months later while they were visiting him in rehab, just before they left, it took a lot of thought. It’s a conscious effort on his part, less out of the blue than it seemed, but he never used to say it enough. He doesn’t know if he means it. He doesn’t know what it means, to mean it. He doesn’t know how it feels. But he says it, because it needs to be said. _Je t'aime_ , he says, and the smile on his mother’s face made it worth everything, even if the thought of maybe that’s a lie made his stomach turn.  
             He doesn’t really say it to anyone else, though. It always feels strange, always feels like a lie, always feels like someone else’s words in his mouth. So he avoids it. He comes up with other ways to say what needs to be said.

             One night, he says _you mean a lot to me_ , when Shitty is naked in his bed with him and Jack isn’t really sure how they ended up like this but he doesn’t mind it. The physical contact that came along with being Shitty’s friend, and then Shitty’s best friend, took some getting used to, but he finds it comforting now. Shitty is solid, and real, and doesn't make a terrible bedmate as long as you convince him to _at least put on some underwear_ , and consider it a compromise when he pulls on a Supergirl thong that does a lot of nothing.  
             Shitty gives him a smile, slightly crooked and slightly stoned, as usual, his teeth bright in the dark, and slings an arm around Jack’s chest. _I love you too, man. Love you too,_ he replies, as he snuggles closer, and Jack is pretty sure this is where he’s meant to be, right now.

              _Eat more protein_. It’s getting warm, as summers do, but it’s not hot, because summer is still on its way. There’s a lot of it to come. A lot of time away from the Haus, away from his team, away from Faber. Not away from the ice, but away from the rink that has started to feel a lot like home. He has a plane to catch, but he doesn’t want to leave yet. _Eat more protein_ , standing in the Haus hallway, trying to drag out his last goodbye. It’s a joke, and also sort of an apology, one that he hopes Bittle understands. Bittle seems to understand most things he means, now. And he seems to, this time. _You have a good summer too, Jack._

             He tries to say it, to the team, exactly once. It’s more uncomfortable than he expected, but they’re reeling after a bad loss, one that’s probably his fault. Of course it’s his fault. It always is.  
             The walk back to the Haus is a quiet one. Usually there’d be a party, some noise, some cheer, after they win. But when they lose, Shitty makes bad jokes and Ransom and Holster say nothing and Jack wishes he was anywhere but there. Bittle is quiet, too, but is leading the pack with Lardo, and they’re chatting. Jack can’t hear what it’s about. Even Chowder is muted, but only just, because Farmer came to this game, and is walking back with them. Chowder is a light on his own, but they’re blinding together. So the dimming that is the loss of a game doesn’t do a lot.  
            _I’m proud of you, despite the loss_. Jack says. He is proud of them. They didn’t play their best, but they played the best they could tonight.  
No one really reacts, for a moment, but Holster slings an arm over Jack’s shoulders, and leans against him for a moment before dropping back into his own space. He wants to say that he loves them. He thinks he does. Maybe, he does. But he’s too tired, too guilty, to sort through his thoughts, and doesn’t want to make his mouth feel wrong with the glide of the syllables over his tongue. He wants it to be true. He just doesn’t know that this is love.

             He thinks that maybe love is two in the morning out in the reading room with Lardo, when she can’t sleep because she gets anxious when she’s about to finish a piece, and Jack gets anxious when always. They’re both working through their own thoughts, their own problems, in silence, and somehow Jack knows that she knows that this matters to him. That he, maybe, loves her, but isn’t really sure what love is, even platonically. She always seems to understand anyways. He thinks, that if he loves anyone, it’s probably her.

             While sitting in his room, surrounded by the ever-constant sounds of the Haus, Jack thinks that, maybe, this is love. Maybe love is hearing Lardo laugh at something probably ridiculous Shitty is doing as she tries to paint him in the next room over. Maybe love is hearing Ransom and Holster downstairs arguing over the merits of various Mario Kart characters - _Princess Peach or Yoshi_ , Peach, definitely, _Peach or Daisy_ , Daisy, man, c’mon, _Daisy or Rosalina_ , she doesn’t count and you know it. Maybe love is hearing Bittle in the kitchen, bowls and pans clattering against each other, the sound of the mixer running on occasion, the smell of something cinnamon wafting up the stairs.  
             He thinks that love might be not minding if his door is opened or closed. Not minding if people pop their heads in to interrupt his reading, or ask him if he wants to come grab whatever sugary drink Bittle’s hooked on now or dinner or frozen yogurt. At one point, it all would have set him on edge, but now...now it just feels like how it’s supposed to. He feels like he might love this, but he isn’t sure. The word still has too much significance and too little meaning to him to apply to this moment of peace.

            _Aw, Jack,_ Bitty - he can’t explain it, but somehow Bittle has shifted to Bitty in his mind, - says when Jack pulls out his debit card to pay for their drinks on one of their excursions to Annie’s, before their class together. _You didn’t have to! Seriously, I can get it._ Jack just gives him a slight smile and ducks his head a bit as he puts his card away.  
_I’m good for it, Bittle,_ He says, once they’re standing by the counter where their drinks will be placed when they’re done. He’s just signed with the Falcs. He hasn’t even told anyone yet. He’s definitely good for it. He’s good for every single one of these moments.

             And then he’s graduating. He’s leaving each and every one of those moments behind. Things will never be the same. Shitty’s going to be a half-hour away, the rest of them are going to be further. His bedroom is probably going to be covered in Sharks merchandise, and Shitty’s room will be stained with even more paint and covered in more glitter than it already is. He’s taking his diploma before he knows it, taking pictures and saying goodbyes and feeling like he was missing something. Feeling like he’s forgotten something.

            _If that’s what your heart is telling you, you should go,_ he’s told, _Go really say goodbye_ , and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but he knows what he has to do. So he goes.

             He thinks that maybe he’s in love with Bitty before he realises it. Because somehow, the words slip out before they break off their Skype call for the night, a week and a handful of days before the third of July, when Jack is flying to Georgia. There’s been countless Skype calls before then, but Jack’s been counting. 35 days since graduation. 35 calls, fit into their routines like they belonged there all along.

            _I love you,_ he says, like it’s nothing, because it _feels_ like nothing, before he realises what he’s said and he’s stuck still, unable to say anything else. He isn’t sure when this happened, but it feels _right_.  
             It feels awkward to say it to anyone but his parents, but he thinks he means it. He thinks he understands, finally. This doesn’t feel like needing to impress. It doesn’t feel like he needs to earn the right to call Bitty his, even if it’s only in private. It just feels like it’s supposed to. But Bitty isn’t saying anything, so he also thinks that they’ve barely been together a month and maybe it’s too soon for this and maybe it’s getting hard to breath but then Bitty finally speaks.  
              _Oh. Honey._ He says, and that’s a good sign, right? But also, Bitty calls everyone honey, so that’s nothing special. _D’you mean that?_ It’s late and Bitty’s voice is a bit slurred with sleepiness, and Jack realises that, yes, he does. He really does. If anything, this is love. He doesn’t want love to be anything different than this, even if he’s wrong.  
              _Yes_ , He answers, and Bitty _transforms_. He thinks that Eric might be blinking back tears, but they’re good tears that are quickly wiped away by him burying his face against Señor Bunny, who is unable to hide Bitty’s smile, and Jack can’t help but laugh because he is _so in love with this boy on the other side of the screen_. He still doesn’t really know that he knows what that means, doesn’t know if this is the love that the dictionaries mean. He doesn’t know if this is what people would burn up a sun for, would chase after planes for at the end of cheesy movies his father likes. But it feels like he’s attaching his own meaning to the definition, and seeing where it takes him. It still feels like a bit of a lie. Still feels like he’s doing something wrong. Jack still feels like he should be able to _tell_ that this is love. But it feels _good_ , and it feels like something he wants to be love when Bitty replies, soft and giggly and with a voice that’s become increasingly more accented from day after day in Georgia, _I love you, too_.

**Author's Note:**

> there's minimal hockey and minimal french in this, because i know nothing about either, but if there's a chance i messed something up, please tell me!! 
> 
> the title is from repetition by purity ring, and the song is otherwise irrelevant to this fic, but i liked that line


End file.
